


it was a graveyard smash

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M, Halloween Costumes, Sorry Not Sorry, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:26:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt via <b>dozmuffinxc</b>: "If Lane and Joan were going to a Halloween party together, what/who would they go as?" Alternate title: The Case of the Cosgroves' Halloween Party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was a graveyard smash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cchristina-hendricks](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cchristina-hendricks).



"You already have the pipe."  
  
Lane sighed, and cast her a long-suffering look over the top of his newspaper page. Joan knew perfectly well why he was grumpy. They’d had this conversation multiple times over the past few days. “Oh, why can’t I just go in my own clothes?”  
  
"Honey, it’s a costume party. Everyone’s expected to dress up and have a few cocktails. It’s supposed to be fun."  
  
At the last word, a visible frown came to his face. “Joan—”  
  
She pulled a considering expression, wondering how best to persuade him, then raised her eyebrows as an idea came to mind. In one fluid motion, she rose from her seat at the breakfast table, walked to Lane’s side, and leaned down to whisper in his ear. As she spoke, his open newspaper wilted to the tabletop, practically covering his leftovers, completely forgotten.

"Do we have a deal?" she asked as she straightened up, her mouth pursing into something like a smirk.

He cleared his throat, set the newspaper pages aside into a messy pile, and offered Joan his hand, as if striking a formal agreement. “One evening, no more.”  
  
She took it, briefly, and couldn’t help grinning. “Thank you, darling.”  
  
"But no greasepaint!" he added in a warning tone, as she went to put their dirty dishes in the sink.

 

**

“Oh, my _god_ ,” exclaimed Cynthia as she opened the door. The black fringed gown and peacock feather headband pinned in her elaborately-curled hair said she was a flapper. “You guys look great!”

Joan cast a sly look to her left, where Lane adjusted his deerstalker with a self-conscious hand, and tugged at the sleeve of his brown hounds-tooth cloak. She had rented it from a shop in the Village, near her old apartment. He was a perfect Holmes. “Well—it was all Joan’s idea. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t worry, Kenny and I are literary, too,” said Cynthia, waving a hand as she ushered them inside the apartment, and toward one of the bedrooms. Her dress swayed as she walked. Music was playing loudly on the hi-fi – sounded like Chuck Berry, but Joan couldn’t tell over the noise of the crowd, which seemed to be outside, and enormous. “We’re all up on the roof. And Ms. Taylor,” with a wink, “if you need somewhere to put your coat, it’s just there, in that spare room.”

Cynthia went to show Lane up to the rest of the party. Joan deposited her coat on the bed, checked her black wig one last time in the vanity mirror – it was very itchy – and followed the sound of chatter, climbing up the fire escape in her high heels and tight red gown with slow, tentative steps.

“Hey!” exclaimed Ken as she emerged onto the crowded rooftop. He was wearing white-tie, with his hair slicked back, a delicate watch chain dangling from his waistcoat, and a silver cigarette case in hand. Maybe that was a gift from Ed Baxter—it looked like a wedding present. “Uh—I mean, _hello, old sport._ ”

“Elegant,” Joan said with a giggle, watching a few feet away from them as someone in a lion costume tripped over their own tail. Did they invite everyone in the building? “I never would have taken you for a Fitzgerald fan.”

He laughed. “Well, Cynthia wanted 20s. I really wanted to be Nick Carraway, but then I would have had to blacken my hair. So we made some compromises.”

She smiled. “Have you seen Lane?”

“Wait, he’s actually in costume?”

“Yes,” Joan couldn’t help but smirk, and borrowed Cynthia’s earlier phrase. “He’s literary, too. I won’t spoil it.”

“Can’t wait,” he said, pulling a curious frown. “Let me see—drinks are in the far left corner. And Trudy’s here somewhere—so’s Peggy and—” seeming to get some kind of signal from his wife— “oh, hang on, Cyn, it’s in the kitchen.” He slants Joan an understanding look. “Duty calls.”

She picked her way over toward the indicated drink table, crossing under several strings of small Chinese lanterns and what looked like Christmas lights strung from chimney to chimney. Cynthia had put out candles on almost every available flat surface, as well as some assorted pumpkins and gourds, a few ceramic witch’s hats, and—scaling the nearest chimney—some tiny hard plastic spiders climbing across a gauzy section of fake web.

Thankfully, there were no spiders on the drink table. She poured herself a generous measure of red punch, spiked it with a little something from the liquor selection, and turned to scan the nearest group of party guests. A dark-haired petite woman in a black cat suit caught her attention first, although the sultry effect of her costume was turned a little juvenile by the fuzzy ears perched on her head, not to mention the pink lipstick, pink nose, and the thick black whiskers she’d painted onto her face.

She waved. “Oh, Joan! Hello!”

Joan smiled at the younger woman, tapping ash from a freshly-lit cigarette. “Trudy, you look fabulous.”

“Tammy asked me to dress up as a kitty. Can you believe this was the only outfit I could find?” As if the lack of cutesy adult costumes was truly baffling. Joan suppressed a smirk. If Mrs. Campbell’s new beau was anywhere nearby, he probably appreciated the mistake.

Trudy doesn’t seem to notice her amusement. They scan the party for a moment before the other woman turns back to Joan. “Did I see Lane wearing a deerstalker?”

Joan couldn’t help smiling. “Doesn’t he look perfect?”

“Yes! I tried to say hello, but some of the kids were taking turns getting pictures. I couldn’t even catch his eye.”

“Really?” Joan felt warmth spread throughout her stomach. “Well, with luck, he’s having some fun.”

**

“The game is on!” Stan crowed, soon as Lane spotted him. The lad was stuck amid a throng of dancing young people. He appeared to be in very festive spirits—owing, no doubt, to the fact that creative had been drinking since three or four o’clock this afternoon. But Lane was glad to see a familiar face all the same, he supposed.

The young man picked his way through the crowd, dragging a similarly-enthusiastic young woman with him. Lane didn’t recognize her. She was very attractive, he supposed, if you liked that sort of thing – a blonde slip of a girl with big hair and very thick eyeliner, wearing a shocking lack of clothing considering the temperature and the fact that their party was outdoors. Very short black dress. Lane was surprised she could walk without feeling exposed.

Stan cuffed Lane on the shoulder as soon as he was within range. “Man, am I glad to see you. Chief owes me ten bucks!”

 _Chief?_ Oh. Miss Olson. Lane still rolled his eyes in a petulant way, examining the young man in an attempt to figure out his costume. He wore his usual dingy corduroys, a green army jacket, and round glasses, paired with a few strings of love beads. Musician would be a safe bet, though he had no idea who. “Oh, well, it was Joan’s idea. She thought it might be…comfortable.”

The younger man snickers, eyes dancing with something like amusement. “Oh, yeah?”

“Are you, like, from England or something?” Stan’s date said suddenly, examining the weave of Lane’s cloak as if the fabric possessed hypnotic qualities.

“Er. Yes, although I’ve lived here—several years, now…”

“Cool.” Her hand was suddenly on his elbow.

“No, don’t do that,” Stan told the girl, quickly taking her hand, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Sorry, man. She’s really high.”

“Oh. Well,” said Lane, surprised to hear it said so freely, but thankfully he didn’t have to contribute much more to the conversation. The two of them departed just as quickly as they’d arrived.

**

“Harry really wants to go to California,” said Jennifer, with a tight-lipped smile in Joan’s direction. Her red gingham shirt and fringed suede vest were paired with what looked like a horse-riding habit. “But we’re still discussing it.”

“Of course,” Joan said, smoothing her face into a neutral expression. It was easy to do when all she needed to assume character was tilt her head, take a drag of her cigarette, and feign coolness. But there was a perceptible shadow in the inner corner of her left eye. Were her false eyelashes coming undone? “It’s an important decision.”

“Honey, I thought we said we weren’t gonna talk about that,” Harry mumbled, tugging at the red kerchief tied around his neck. “I mean, Joan doesn’t—uh—it’s a party, you know?”

“Excuse me,” said Jennifer to Joan, her blonde pigtails swinging as she walked away and threaded through a crowd of people standing around the drink table. Harry followed her in agitated dismay.

**

Lane was standing in a quiet corner when he saw Joan striding over, a bright smile on her face as she spotted him beyond the crowd. He had to hide a smile. She did so like a party.

“Hi,” she said first, coming to stand on his left, and he nudged her with an elbow in greeting. What he really wanted to do was put an arm around her, but with all these people, and especially given their costumes, he felt too self-conscious. He stuck to being playful instead.

“Party coming up to your expectations?”

She laughed. “So far.”

“I saw Mrs. Campbell.”

“I’m sure you did.” Giving him a sly look. “Did you also see Harry?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Cranes are here?”

Joan nodded, and gestured with her drink to the nearest chimney, where Jennifer and Trudy were in conversation with Megan Draper. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I think he borrowed that cowboy hat from his daughter.”

Lane wasn’t sure how she came to that conclusion. “What?”

“It’s red with white thread. There’s a little girl in Kevin’s playgroup who has one just like it—and I know they don’t make that style for adults.”

“Oh, good lord,” Lane said, laughing aloud at the prospect, and he glanced down at his own costume. “Suppose I ought to be thankful you at least got me a proper kit, hm?”

Joan put a hand on his arm, her mouth quirking in a grin. “I wanted you to look handsome. And you do.”

“Your drinks must have been very good,” he murmured, but felt pleased all the same. She opened her mouth to say something else when they were joined by two young people: a man in some kind of abstract costume—black turtleneck and ratty dungarees—and with him, Peggy Olson, who was wearing her normal work clothes.

“You’re wearing a costume?” she asked, staring at Lane in surprise.

“Told ya we should’ve changed,” the young man with her prompted, when she turned to look at him with her mouth open. “They _said_ it was a costume party.”

“What are you supposed to be?” Joan asked the young man, raising an eyebrow as if she couldn’t wait to hear the answer. Lane more or less knew that look. She already had opinions.

Peggy rolled her eyes, shaking her head as if they shouldn’t bother asking, but before she could speak the young man was already talking, gesturing toward Lane with a frown on his face.

“You know, Conan Doyle was a real piece of work.”

“Erm,” Lane replied, not overly familiar with the author as a rule, but he supposed the conversation was taking an unfortunate turn.

“ _Abe,”_ Peggy said, looking resigned.

“What? Have you read any of those stories? They’re riddled with tributes to the glories of British imperialism. You know, this country’s obsession with manifest destiny can be traced right back to that colonial bullshit—”

“Whatever. I read _A Study in Scarlet_ ,” Peggy interrupted, glancing back toward Lane and Joan as if in a silent plea for help. “The only thing Sister Beatrice ever talked about was the dual evils of polygamy and Mormons.”

“Nothing about necrophilia?” Joan asked, with a sly look. The group turned to stare at her. “I would have expected better from the Catholics.”

Lane was not sure he had heard the word correctly. “Sorry— _what?_ ”

Peggy did not seem offended, or terribly amused by Lane’s confusion, and gave an indifferent shrug. “Well. I think she hoped we didn’t catch that part. She was new.” She smiled briefly at them, then took her friend’s arm, pointing toward someone behind Joan. “We need to go say hello to Megan, but maybe we’ll see you later?”

“Course,” Lane says, desperately hoping otherwise.

When the two of them are safely out of earshot, he puts a hand on Joan’s wrist. “You weren’t…having a laugh just now. Regarding the book?”

“Oh,” Joan says, and snorts out an amused noise. “Well, it wasn’t really necrophilia. It was only a kiss.”

He glanced down at his costume with raised eyebrows. “How very ghoulish.”

“Didn’t you read the books?”

Lane lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “In school, I suppose. Can’t remember all that much.”

She sighed again, slipping her arm through his for a brief moment, and glancing at him in a way that had been known to cause trouble in the past. “Too bad.”

**

“No,” Stan insisted, spreading his hands wide as he talked, like they were about to start a game of American football. “Okay. You gotta do the whole character. Just once.”

Lane nearly choked on his drink. “I don’t think so.”

“Noooo,” Mrs. Cosgrove chimed in. On her arm was one of Mrs. Draper’s friends—the one who had ginger hair—who snickered when he looked in their direction.

“Oh, you look so perfect,” the other woman continued, “you’ve just got to. Please?”

He let out a small sigh, weighing his options. Mrs. Cosgrove was a sweet girl, and he sometimes had trouble turning down her friendly requests, even under normal circumstances. “Oh—but I don’t even know the proper phrases—it wouldn’t—”

“Oh,” she countered, waving a hand, “it’s easy. Kenny knows them all. You just stick a pipe in your mouth and brood, and every so often you make deductions.” Putting on a terrible accent. “I say, old sport!”

He couldn’t help smiling at the altered voice. It really was awful.

“Yeah, and then you just add a bunch of English crap, like, e _lementary! Oh, Watson, I’ve done it._ Blah blah blah. _”_

“Is that what you think English people sound like?”

“Oh,” Stan said, ignoring Lane, snapping his fingers once and pointing to get Mrs. Cosgrove’s attention. “Hey. What’s the woman’s name?”

“Oh! Um—no, you’re right. Kenny likes her, too. What—oh, it starts with scandal—”

“Joan might know,” Lane offered after a moment, as the answer did not seem forthcoming.

There was a pause.

“You’re probably right,” Mrs. Cosgrove said with a wink and a smile, patting his hand. “Tell her we’re settling a bet. I think I saw her go down to the apartment.”

**

He found Joan just inside the guest room, adjusting the straps of her dress in the vanity mirror.

“I had to freshen my lipstick,” she said upon seeing him, briefly coming over to kiss his cheek in a way that was very adorable.

Lane did not reply to this in the usual way—normally he would have said something like _oh, right,_ or _well, looks nice,_ but instead, he decided to try out this character business while they were alone. He stood a little taller, and spoke in a register a bit lower than his normal voice—bit brusque, too.

“Well, Watson, the case—awaits. Isn’t time for any of that—lippy business.”

She blinked, and stood motionless for a moment, staring at him, but just as he was about to drop the act altogether she took a step forward, schooling her expression into something more careful. “Mr. Holmes, I presume.”

Oh. So it was all right, then. He let out a relieved breath.

“Sorry, I was just upstairs with—”

“No, wait,” Joan interrupted, shaking her head as if coming out of a dream. She swallowed. “Just—say something else.”

He studied her closely. She did seem curious. Following a kind of hunch, he took out his pipe, passed it from hand to hand, then put it in his mouth for a moment, assuming the detective voice again, and imagining he was talking aloud to his assistant. “We—well, are dealing with the worst kind of element—imaginable.”

Joan seemed to weigh her words before speaking aloud. “But you will take my case, won’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

Lane pretended to consider it, not sure who she was supposed to be now, and gave another shrug, taking his pipe from his mouth this time. “I suppose if you hire me, then, Miss—”

“Adler,” she supplied quickly.

“Miss Adler,” he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, well, if there’s adequate information.”

Joan was noticeably flushed, now, and when she met his gaze again, her eyes darted to his mouth and lingered for a long time before she quickly looked away—

 _Oh._ God, why hadn’t she mentioned _that?_

“Darling,” was all he said, quiet, not sure how wise it was to keep up this game while standing in someone else’s flat, but before he could finish the sentence she was bustling toward their bed, and searching for their coats.

“Your mother’s still at the flat,” he couldn’t help but remind her.

She missed a button on her coat, still watching him with sharp eyes. “I know.”

**

In the taxi, they had a sudden stop crossing the bridge back into the city, and Lane put a hand on her bare knee by instinct. Her muscles tensed under his palm, and after casting a careful look up front toward the driver, he let it linger, his fingers curving inward just under the hem of her dress, but not moving up, gently tracing back and forth against her soft skin.

She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose, and he felt her hips squirm into his touch, her left hand now gripping the fabric of his cloak, just below his elbow.

He did not move his fingers.

“Patience, dear Miss Adler,” he told her in a whisper, and felt her shiver again as his mouth accidentally grazed the shell of her ear.

**

“No—leave it on,” she blurted as he moved to take off his hat, as they stumbled into the living room of their hotel suite.

Lane blinked, but still obliged, and settled into the nearest wooden-frame chair with a purposefully slow air, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He cleared his throat, deepening his voice again, and steepled his fingers over his torso. “Well, what—can I do for you today?”

Joan fixed him with a look so dark it practically burned a hole through his clothes, her hands fumbling with her zipper and then her brassiere and then the clips of her garter belt.

“Tell me what you want, and you shall have it,” he said next, although his voice shook a little as she peeled off her stockings, standing there only in her violet slip. God, she was so beautiful.

Under his scrutiny, she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, then paused, pressing one hand to the back of her wig, frowning for a moment. “Ugh. Wait. This pin is jabbing into my scalp.”

“Oh. Well—do you want me to—”

“No—I think I—” fiddling with the edge of the hairpiece nearest her left ear, turning slightly to the side, “oh, for god’s sake—there. Jesus.”

A tiny red curl had escaped from under her temple. She tossed the offending hairpin across the room, and rolled her eyes after accomplishing this, like she couldn’t believe she had to break play just to fix something as silly as that, but he didn’t mind. If he was going to look ridiculous, he might as well have company.

“Should I take the rest of them out?” Her hands were braced on her hips, like she was undecided if the presence of the wig would detract from the overall experience.

He shook his head no—not at all bothered by the idea of her wearing it unless it was already hurting her. But, when he spoke again, he made his voice a bit impatient. “Miss Adler, I am a—busy man.”

“Mr. Holmes,” she said quickly, now pushing the straps of her slip from her shoulders, and turning to face him again. Yards of silk were pooled around her ankles. “You have my attention.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that is a lyric from "Monster Mash" in the title. I love that song and I recently watched "I Love Lisa" just before writing this fic. I CARE NOT FOR YOUR JUDGMENT, INTERNET.
> 
> As I said on tumblr, in the headcanon piece that inspired this fic: "Joan would have to work pretty hard to get Lane on board with the idea of a fancy dress party. He just doesn’t consider an evening spent in uncomfortable clothes with a bunch of partygoers very fun. But I think if she called in the right favors/pitched the right costume, he would go along with it.
> 
> They would not have a couples costume. Joan would want her outfit to be flattering, if not outright sexy, and so would probably dress up as a movie star or historical figure (Liz Taylor comes straight to mind; she’d just use gowns + jewelry from her own wardrobe, then buy the appropriate wig.)
> 
> In all versions of this idea, Lane would be dressed as Sherlock Holmes: deerstalker, tweed cloak, pipe and all. He would grumble about the costume all night, but would probably become the sleeper hit of the party. And he would secretly enjoy it even more if Joan admitted to appreciating his outfit at the end of the evening."


End file.
